


and we work towards sunset

by Elisye



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Gen, feat. some made up backstory stuff bc im half asleep, take this midnight mess of an introspective drabble thing, the pregame chara introspection musings that no one asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-29 05:36:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14466141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisye/pseuds/Elisye
Summary: Dawn rises, tinted with gold.Dusk sets, shaded in the orange of fire - before it settles into the grey of dust and ash..(before this, before the end - at the start of everything, there was one measly designer, and a company with little regard for human life.)





	and we work towards sunset

**Author's Note:**

> im on a fucking bus i have no idea what im doing

 

make the most of this nothingness.

isn't that the ideal way to take things?

you suppose. you suppose, you suppose. thread in hand, fabric in hand, draped over your lap, pooling and spooling on the glass floor - you make something out of scraps, out of nothing. smile as the colors construct into shapes, into shade and silhouettes. a person is slowly coming alive, from imaginary figures sketched on paper, ruled or blank, but usually ruled; you can't really afford the pricey tags of those branded, minimalist sketchbooks with quality paper and enormous sizes.

but it's enough. it's enough. 

you will _make it_ enough.

in fact, you've already made it, haven't you?

breathe, as you make the midnight deadline. breathe in relief, as tomorrow returns, the sun turning another blind eye to your cold, indifferent tragedies in the making. smile, as several hands pat you on the back, clinging to your coattails, congratulating you on your wonderful, wonderful work.

(ignore the remains of your super-ego that wonders, that notes, that says - their hands are heavy with luxury and the blood-work of dead people.)

smile, smile! the next season will be another work of art. smile, smile! you will be seeing a nice sum on your next paycheck, Miss, ah, Miss Hirokane? smile, keep smiling. bite back the urge to correct them - that isn't your name, you're an intern not an employee, and you haven't been paid a single damn _thing_ for months in the making.

watch the executives walk out in their tailored suits. pretend that nothing matters. you're another wheel in the machine, mindless. one for all, all for all, all for them - be grateful, that they even noticed you exist. the sea is full of fish, screaming to be seen, screaming to die in the limelight.

be grateful. the arts feed no one until you're already burning out - you haven't mistaken a ball of yarn for swiss meat in a while now.

but, maybe, it wouldn't have mattered much. more than that, more than anything, you're hungry for what your heart is always starved of.

thread the needle through seven flowery loops. your newest masterpiece will walk the global walkway on the silver screen - smile, smile, my dearest! your work is breathing, living, dying— _remembered._

however fine the print in the credits, your name is there.

and by all means, you will stay there - until the entire theatre comes crumbling down.

when that happens, you're going to make sure your existence goes out there like the blaze of fireworks - bright and beautiful and vivid, like the soul you always pour into your work, like the satisfaction of being recognized for your worth. with a vanity without excuses or morals, you will make the most of yourself, and become _eternal._

no one can complain when it happens. you're a mousy, forgettable thing - they can't complain about nothing, ha.

among your drafts, the sketchy smile of a survivor beams at you. you grin back as you finish drawing the outlines of a sun on a striped shirt - you had to skip dinner for it, but as always, the applause to come will fill in the ache, let you keep on going and going, cog in the murder machine that you are.

it's as ideal as it can get. not unpleasant, right?

Right.

_(but it could have been more than this—)_

a boulder crushes you without fanfare. 

 


End file.
